“Mas vale tarde que nunca”

LAS VEGAS – The keyboard of this laptop is covered in papery brown pistachio skins and shell dust. There’s a black plastic bag of Wonderful Pistachios just to the left, one of hundreds placed along press row before Saturday’s card, in what passes for swag in this eroding business. Wonderful Pistachios were Filipino congressman Manny Pacquiao’s latest marketing hustle, the tasty green nuts he whacked from a speedbag swivel hook in countless loops on the screen above Saturday’s ring.

There’s no occasion for reading creatively yet, the metaphor is right here: After what Juan Manuel Marquez did to him in the final second of the sixth round of their fourth fight, Pacquiao’s career is now in as many pieces, and filled with as much promise, as the pistachios that coat this keyboard. “Marquez KO 6” – their fight’s official line – hardly approaches it. Pacquiao will fight on, partially out of pride, partially out of financial necessity, but mostly because he’s the one person who was in MGM Grand Garden Arena that holds no recollection of what was done to him Saturday.

It was Juan Manuel Marquez’s night, the crowning act of vindication in a late career marked by its spiteful pursuit, but the entire spectacle felt more like a treatment of Manny Pacquiao. The comatose posture on the apron, his head under the bottom rope, his body perfectly still, his hands folded passively and unnaturally beneath him – testifying to a brain’s communication severed well before it could recognize, much less send notification, his face was in a freefall to cover each of the 66 inches between his metallic blue boots and raven hair.

Folded is how Pacquiao looked, tidied up and put away, resting peacefully in an oblivious place that might be sweet were it not for the vehicle that transported him there, and were it not for the masses of instantly aghast witnesses – some soon appalled, others quickly euphoric, but all initially aghast because it is nigh impossible for a person not to start at the sight of his own put temporarily in a place so like death.

There was not a seat on press row from which anything but Pacquiao’s back could be seen. One heard the clapper signal 10 seconds and began the countdown to round’s end. Surely a few scribes, and cornermen, lowered their heads to begin all the thoughts and activities that happen in the in-between minutes of championship prizefights. Pacquiao had won the round and was about to be up two points on all three judges’ scorecards – identical after five – at the midway point of a fight already featuring two knockdowns and more brutality than its trilogy of predecessors, as neither man desired judges’ opining this time, each stating plainly beforehand he preferred exactly the unconsciousness Pacquiao got to another official decision.

The very maneuver Pacquiao used to fell Marquez three times in the first round of their first match in 2004 – feinted left-hand lead, backwards hop, forwards leap, committed left hand – brought the violent end of their tetralogy. For Marquez made an adjustment that betrayed his newfound confidence in a right hand that was ever accurate but is now prodigious. Marquez used a leftwards spin to thwart Pacquiao’s signature combo in the concluding 11 rounds of their first match, a left-hook lead to Pacquiao’s right shoulder to thwart it in their second match, and a feint of his own in their rubber match; but Saturday brought a seeing-eye right hand Marquez threw because for the first time in his career’s 125 minutes and 59 seconds of fighting Pacquiao, Marquez, boxing’s best gambler, a natural-born predator, calculated the risk ratio favored him.

Pacquiao did not sense it at all; he leaped in with the left-hand lead because he knew the worst that would come was a trip over Marquez’s front shoulder, and the best that might come was a definitive end to their rivalry – shutting “Dinamita’s” crybaby mouth for the rest of their days. Pacquiao did not walk into Marquez’s right hand or even run into it. Pacquiao bounded at it, got his upper vertebrae contracted by it, his chin forced backwards while the rest of him surged forwards, and ruined by it.

There was something different about Marquez’s right hand Saturday. What made Saturday’s first knockdown so stunning in round 3, when a looping right hand from Marquez, one that traveled in an arc enough for Pacquiao to track it, knocked Pacquiao straight backwards, was that everyone watched it arrive, including Pacquiao. The punch disrupted the competitors’ pattern; it arrived either quicker or harder than anything Pacquaio’d been hit with in 13 years. And before Saturday, was Marquez known for wearing one-punch chloroform on his right glove at welterweight?

There will be allegations aplenty this week about Marquez’s historic transformation from balletic 125-pound counterpuncher to 143-pound powerpunching freak, delts bulged and lats shredded and biceps pronouncedly vascular, a transformation that came, absurdly and audaciously, after his 38th birthday, and so, two thoughts: Juan Manuel Marquez did not cheat – his negative drug test will confirm that – but the recipe for his strength and conditioning coach’s cocktail of supplements should be confiscated under a clause that reads: “Whatever chemistry transforms a professional athlete’s body the way yours did must not be tolerated henceforth.”

This too: If Marquez knew next week would bring a positive PED test but not erase from memory his moment of vindication, his instant of euphoria at seeing dissolved the man he believes delayed his proper coronation for almost a decade, a recorded sensation of Pacquiao’s head giving way like a pillow to the middle knuckle of his right fist, followed by a snapshot of Pacquiao’s limp motionless body folded on the blue apron right beside the white ‘k’ in Top Rank, Marquez would take it, so help him God, he would.

Bart Barry can be reached at bart.barrys.email (at) gmail.com